Explanatory essays - The Power of Knowle: Essays That Explain the Important Things in Life - Sykalo Eugene 2025

The Role of Meditation and Contemplative Practices in Various Religions
World religions and religious studies

There’s a tree behind my apartment that doesn’t move even when the wind screams. I watch it some mornings while my tea cools, pretending not to be waiting for a text that won’t come. It just stands there, steady like it knows something I don’t. And maybe it does—maybe it’s meditating. Maybe it’s more enlightened than I’ll ever be.

I say that jokingly. Kind of.

Because here’s the thing: for all the articles and guided apps and turmeric-laced YouTube sermons, I still don’t quite know what meditation is. Not really. I’ve tried to pin it down—Buddhist zazen, Christian centering prayer, Sufi whirling, yogic pranayama—and every time it slips out like breath on a cold window. It leaves a mark, briefly. Then vanishes.

And yet across world religions—from the stone hush of a monastery to the candlelit corners of a suburban bedroom-turned-shrine—meditation, contemplation, stillness… they keep showing up. Not as decorative additions but as beating hearts. Secret engines. Silence, somehow louder than the chant.

So I started wondering: what are we all trying to touch in the dark when we sit there breathing?

Wait—let me start again.

Holy Stillness and the Noisy Mind

Let’s talk about Buddhism first, because that’s where the West has placed its meditation fantasies, curled up in lotus poses with half-lidded eyes and zero thoughts (which, spoiler, isn’t the goal).

In Zen, for instance, zazen isn’t about peace. It’s about presence. Which sometimes looks like peace, but also looks like aching knees and a riot of thoughts screaming like children in a supermarket. You sit and watch. You don’t fix. You don’t flee. You just notice.

It’s radical, in its own quiet way: non-reactivity in a world built on reaction. A kind of ethical commitment, really. And yes, a spiritual one too—because if the mind is a flickering lantern, then maybe what we’re looking for is the space between the flames.

Compare that to Hindu traditions, where meditation is often a form of union—a rope thrown into the abyss to reach Brahman, the ultimate. Practices like dhyana are part of the eightfold path of yoga, and they’re not just exercises in focus; they’re ladders into the divine, rung by rhythmic breath and dissolving ego. The body is still, but the soul? Climbing.

In Christianity, especially the mystical branches—think Teresa of Ávila writing fevered love letters to God, or the anonymous Cloud of Unknowing whispering “let go of everything you know”—meditation is less about clarity and more about surrender. You don’t chase God; you let God chase you. You clear space. You become a room with the door cracked open.

There’s a church down the block where no one sings on key but everyone still shows up. One woman brings a crochet project. A man closes his eyes like he’s remembering something painful but necessary. It’s not flashy, but it’s holy. They sit. They breathe. They ache together. I think that counts.

In Islamic Sufi traditions, there's a different tempo entirely—more heartbeat than breath. Practices like dhikr, the remembrance of God through repetition, feel like waves crashing on the soul’s shore. Sometimes spoken, sometimes silent, sometimes danced—there’s a devotion in it that refuses to sit still. It moves. Spins. Cries out.

Contemplation, here, is not void. It’s presence amplified. It’s love set to a rhythm.

And then there’s Judaism, where meditation is often tucked into prayer like a secret folded into a pocket. In Kabbalistic practice, you might visualize letters, chant names, breathe into verses. It’s heady, yes, but also deeply embodied. You’re not just thinking about God—you’re inviting God into your breath.

And even in secular corners—modern spirituality, mindfulness retreats, trauma-informed yoga classes—there’s an echo. A hunger. A whisper that maybe stillness is more than absence. Maybe it’s a portal. Maybe it’s a protest.

The Ethics of Sitting Still

Here’s a sharp turn: what if meditation isn’t inherently good?

I don’t mean that in a “burn it all down” way. I mean that the act of sitting silently with yourself can be, depending on the context, an act of avoidance or an act of revolution. A numbing agent or a wake-up call.

Monks meditate. So do billionaires. So do soldiers before battle and trauma survivors after collapse. What changes isn’t always the method—it’s the why. The what for. The who-you-become-after.

Some traditions—especially liberation theology, activist Buddhism, engaged Judaism—warn against contemplation as escape. They ask: what good is inner peace if it doesn’t ripple outward?

But others remind us that inner chaos is the war. That sitting still when your mind is a cyclone takes courage. That to face your pain without flinching might be the most radical act of all.

So which is it?

Maybe both.

I’ve meditated through heartbreak and through boredom. Through shame. Through that one awkward silent retreat where someone kept sighing dramatically like they were auditioning for the role of “Enlightened Person #2.”

And what I’ve learned—what I’m still learning—is that meditation can strip you bare. But only if you let it. It can also become a performance. A shield. An Instagram post with soft lighting and zero mess.

We don’t always want to meet ourselves.

Sometimes we just want to feel like someone else has.

Meditation as Memory, Meditation as Grief

There’s this moment in Christian liturgy—especially in the Eastern Orthodox Church—where the priest says: “Let us be attentive.” And I think about that phrase all the time. Not “let us believe.” Not “let us obey.” Just… attend.

To what? To the breath, the body, the moment, the mystery.

To the sound of a mother crying in the back pew. To the candle melting. To the ache behind your ribs you’ve been avoiding all week.

Meditation, in that sense, becomes a kind of sacred attention. A way of remembering. Of grieving.

Grieving what? Well—ourselves, mostly. Or the versions of ourselves we thought we’d be. Or the world, spinning too fast. Or God, when God feels gone.

In that stillness, there’s a strange companionship. Like finding a letter you forgot you wrote. Or a song you used to hum in childhood that suddenly returns like a ghost.

Small Fire, Big Sky

I don’t know what the afterlife looks like. Pearly gates, endless cycles, rebirth as a well-loved dog—I’m open to possibilities.

But I do think that in every religious tradition I’ve encountered, meditation isn’t about escape. It’s about encounter. It’s about staying. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

Maybe that’s the sacred core of it. Not the silence. Not the breath. But the refusal to look away.

From your guilt. From your longing. From your slow, miraculous transformation.

And sure, we can talk about “neural pathways” and “stress reduction” and “focus enhancement” (and if that’s why you’re here, God bless and godspeed). But for me? For the friend who reads too much and cries at poetry slams and prays in languages I don’t speak?

Meditation is where I go to meet myself.

And maybe—if I’m lucky—whatever holy thing decided I was worth waking up for again today.